


Department Store Blues

by rumplestat



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Hymen popping, Knifeplay, LITERALLY, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Fixation, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Septate Hymen, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, excessive bleeding, handjobs, in the most technical sense, multiple trans male characters I should point out, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28061454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumplestat/pseuds/rumplestat
Summary: Number Five finds his powers dwindling at Gimbel's.Hazel and Cha-Cha catch up to him.
Relationships: Cha-Cha/Number Five (Umbrella Academy), Cha-Cha/Number Five | The Boy/Hazel (Umbrella Academy), Hazel/Number Five (Umbrella Academy)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 45





	Department Store Blues

**Author's Note:**

> A fic commissioned by one of my dearest friends, prompt being: comicsverse!Hazel & Cha-Cha rape Five in the department store. Obviously, do not read this if it's not "your scene".
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the comics:  
> 1\. Hazel and Cha-Cha are both men.  
> 2\. Their names are swapped.  
> 3\. Their dynamic is a lot more... _goofy_ , might be the word.
> 
> I wrote this months ago, so I might've forgotten a few tags. Apologies!

_Fuck_ , Five thinks, _he’s_ fucked. 

Footsteps clatter somewhere: Hazel and Cha-Cha. He can barely make out the layout of Gimbel’s—a department store whose layout he’s only familiar with as a half-decimated maze of broken walls and burning fabric—in the semi-illumination, and he’s too far away from the door to make a run for it. His powers are spent. Delores is in a _duffle bag_. 

He is not making it out of here. 

”Oh, thank Christ— _Hazel_ , he’s still here—” 

The exclamation is accompanied by the shriek of a gun and the sudden, piercing pain of a bullet racketing up his left shoulder where he didn’t notice it sticking out from the display stand he’d chosen to take cover behind. 

Blood soaks into his blazer as he scrambles behind the shelf with a hiss, almost tripping over his feet. His good arm shoots out in an attempt to balance himself against its hooks, knocking assorted shit down in the process. 

_Fucking_ child body _resetting his sense of proprioception—_

Okay, bullet wound. Not the end of the world. He’s had worse, certainly, and it could’ve been a kneecap or somewhere else equally debilitating. Five can—he can work this out. Door is over twenty feet away. He doesn’t know when he’ll recover enough to jump again, but— 

Five just manages not to scream when a gloved thumb digs into the wound from behind. He writhes, jamming an elbow back into where he estimates his attacker’s stomach to be and kicking his feet against too-high shins, but a strong arm comes to grip around his arms at his stomach and pinions him up against a broad chest. His feet dangle slightly as he’s lifted several inches off the ground, now streaked bloody with frantic footprints. 

A figure leisurely saunters around the corner. Gun cradled in a Weaver stance, metal glints from the parking lot streetlights filtering in through the ceiling-floor windows; Five can just make out Cha-Cha’s grinning, blue-and-yellow bear mask. He doesn’t have to turn his head to know the man holding him is wearing a matching cutesy=pink oblong dog mask. 

”Hazel,” Five grunts weakly past the arm restricting his airflow, “A lot stronger than I expected.” 

”Five,” Hazel greets from behind him, finger still resting in his bullet wound. “A lot smaller than I remember. Which, really, is not at all. You never much liked to mingle with us.” 

Which really is the unfortunate crux of the situation: that accidentally de-aging himself came with it the unexpected consequence of severely constricting his ability to spatial jump, like he actually _is_ thirteen again, like the cumulative distance he can travel is at least partly dependent on the limitations of his physical body. It’s an interesting observation and one that warrants exploration later, but right now he needs to—to not be murdered. 

Five is too small to get away from two temporal assassins who are renowned for their comedic brutality and casual indulgence in excessive collateral carnage. The Commission hosted more than one seminar on “sparing innocents” that Five suspected was entirely for the pair’s benefit (all of which Five skipped), and there were several guideline alterations in an attempt to reign in their careless, collaborative blunders. 

They couldn’t be more different than Five. 

Five took a certain pride in his work at the Commission. He was efficient. _Neat_. He wasted little time because he had none, dedicated every moment outside of murder to his equations and family. These two…physically embody the inverse. Five can’t exactly say how much they _enjoy_ what they do, given this is his first face-to-face encounter with them, but… 

”Hm,” Hazel starts with a candid nonchalance, as if the police aren’t assuredly en route after some bystander heard gunshots from the street and called it in. Five feels the deep hum of it vibrating against his back, and he makes a futile attempt at squirming in his arms. “We haven’t had this much free time after assignment success since Quantico ‘94. You thinking what I’m thinking?” 

”Ice cream run,” Cha-Cha answers without missing a beat. His gun is still trained on Five’s forehead. “The flavors they’ve got in 2019 are downright inhumane.” 

”No. Or—wait,” a considering pause, thumb rhythmically dipping into Five’s bullet hole as he thinks. “Yes, actually. Good call. But before that.” 

And _yes_ Five is used to being shot, it’s one of the most basic job hazards, but he’s never exactly had reason to finger one of his wounds before and _fuck_ does it hurt, each jab setting his shoulder blade on fire. He weakly thrashes against Hazel’s chest and feels his face twist into an impatient glower. 

”Are you two going to kill me or not?” he demands, impatient, aiming a shin-kick backwards in an admittedly impulsive display of childishness. The arm around him tightens threateningly, forcing him to wheeze. “Be a little professional, will you?” 

“Oh,” Cha-Cha says, drawing out the vowel with realization. His head is tilted higher than Five’s eye-level; intentionally ignoring him, then. “You mean torture.” 

The arm starts swaying him from side-to-side, like he actually _is_ a child. Five feels his face heat up with indignation, and he’s suddenly glad that Gimbel’s after-hours lighting is abysmal. He flexes his hands impatiently, shifting against the tight hold. “Need I remind you,” he breathes, “I have the same torture-resistance training as you two.” 

”Yes and no,” Hazel answers nebulously, words still directed at Cha-Cha, “ _Yes_ in the technical handbook definition of the sense, _no_ in every other sense.” Five can picture the pink, floppy-eared dog mask his head keeps sliding against with the building momentum of each sway. The grip abruptly jostles a little, the rounded metal catching on his hair as it dips down to address Five, “You aren’t trained in this way, man.” 

The faintest, faintest hint of police sirens in the distance. Five feels his heart catch in his throat. His eyes flicker from Cha-Cha’s mask to the windows depicting the empty parking lot to the rest of the abandoned store, lacking comprehension. “What?” 

” _Ohhh_ ,” Cha-Cha drawls again with sudden clarity, more emphatic this time. He lowers the gun and clips it into its holster, other hand lifting to tap at the general area of his chin. He twists his mascot head this way and that, scanning the store layout. “Here? The police are coming.” 

”What?” Five demands. They could be bluffing, but it feels like he’s missing something, something—important. Something vital. 

”You of all people know they aren’t thorough with their site searches, man,” Hazel says to his partner, digging his thumb back into Five’s wound and instigating another round of thrashing. “Cops’re shit at their job in all timelines.” 

”This is true,” Cha-Cha concedes, rocking back on his heels in thought. He pauses for another moment, then says, “You drag him back to the dressing rooms, I’ll grab some stuff and meet you there.” 

Five will admit the ambiguity of ‘drag’ and ‘some stuff’ does not hold the most positive connotations in the same context. He forces himself to take a steady breath past the grip constricting his chest as Cha-Cha turns away and lumbers off. 

“What?” he repeats. , urgency drained out of his tone this time. Professional, calm. Collect the relevant information, execute a plan. Simple. He’s been straddled with worse situations. 

”Well,” Hazel says, then adds in a non-answer, “Let’s go, then, kid.” 

Five finds himself suddenly flipped around and hefted over a broad shoulder, pivoted at the pelvis with arms still pinned to his sides and knees now nestled between an elbow and what he assumes to be a pectoral muscle. Blood rushes to his head from the sudden shift in orientation, and with a grimace he feels the steady weep of blood from his shoulder follow the direction of gravity toward his neck. 

Hazel—is shorter than Cha-Cha, Five can glean that just from the few minutes of staring at the taller figure and how the ground is closer right now than it would be otherwise. He’s suddenly embarrassed that his feet were hanging off the ground in the first place, and Five just knows that Delores will lord his miscalculation over his head for so long— 

_Delores_. He forgot about her, to his horror. Five squirms, trying and failing to knee the man effectively as he starts off toward the back of the store, eyes settling on the duffle bag that must’ve been kicked to side of the aisle. 

Later, he promises himself. He’ll get her—later. 

Each step Hazel takes digs the soft flesh of Five’s stomach into a thick shoulder. He’s never truly been carried like this, like a—bratty child after a tantrum, having to be carried out of a shopping mall or wherever parents took their children in public. Luther mainly stuck to the fireman lift in cases of emergency, and Five could handle himself for the most part besides. 

Needless to say, he hates it. 

“You know,” Hazel starts, forcing Five back to attention between each stomping gait that rocks his body, “That job in Calhoun, absolutely legendary. Where’d you get the mortars? Cha and I’ve been dying to ask since we heard about it.” 

Five feels the absurd urge to laugh. Socializing with colleagues had never exactly been one of his strengths, but he shouldn’t be surprised that his exploits spread by word of others’ mouth alone. A scowl sketches its way onto his face. He spits on the back of Hazel’s work suit. “Fuck you.” 

_Hazel_ laughs then, to Five’s confusion. It peters off quickly. “You’re a real hotshot at headquarters. We almost didn’t want to take the assignment out of deference, but, well. You know how management is.” 

The fact that a commissioned temporal assassin—the one _kidnapping_ Five right now—is attempting small talk is so…Five feels a headache beginning to kick behind his left eye. He _does_ know how management is, but this knowledge could never mitigate his confusion at the fact that they would hire people like this to do their bidding. Maybe it’s just hard to find employees, Five thinks, if his limited knowledge of their recruiting pool consists entirely of apocalyptic scenarios. 

Five just grunts, impatience beginning to grate at his nerves. He’s too antsy, needs some form of control back. ”Are you going to tell me what you’re doing with me?” 

”Hm,” Hazel says, “Well—” 

”Hazel!” Cha-Cha suddenly shouts from the other end of the store, “Water-based or silicone?” 

”Water-based,” Hazel shouts back, then back to normal volume, “Fuck out of here. _Silicone_.” 

Something heavy congeals in Five’s lungs. He forces his tone steady when he asks, “Are you two serious?” 

A shrug jostles Five up and down, not at all assisting with his growing nausea. ”Gotta get our kicks somehow. I mean, just _look_ at you,” Hazel adds without any hand gesture to indicate what he’s referring to. “Can’t pass that up.” 

”I look like a _kid_ ,” Five says, not quite able to keep the hint of disbelief out of his voice. 

”Yeah, but you’re not,” Hazel says plainly, “You’re over the hill. Older than us, even. Don’t start.” 

Sirens in the distance. When Five twists his head sideways, he can catch the red-and-blue of police lights flashing out the storefront window from the corner of his eye. If Hazel and Cha-Cha are stupid enough to stay at Gimbel’s for—whatever it is they’re planning, then there’s a chance he can make it out of this alive. 

He just has to bide his time. 

“—and do _not_ tell me you’re a virgin,” Hazel is still speaking, apparently, and Five almost rolls his eyes at the direction his one-sided conversation is heading. He doesn’t seem to be anticipating a response, however, because he continues, “That would be so funny.” 

Five does not deem it necessary to mention that he has always, technically, been a virgin, semantics of age regression aside. As much as he personally considers select experiences with Delores to “count,” he’s pretty sure that Hazel (and most well-adjusted individuals) would disagree. 

Cha-Cha is waiting for them by the dressing rooms. Five hears the crinkle of a plastic bag as they approach, then a latch door unlocking. 

”Highly doubt the cops’ll check back here,” comes Cha-Cha’s voice, “They usually don’t go out of their way to unlock all the dressing rooms. If we’re quiet, we’ll be fine.” A pause. Then, pointedly, “Assuming that you didn’t leave any traces behind.” 

Hazel stops. Five’s position shifts enough to assume that he’s now looking down at the floor, taking in the trail of blood from his shoulder. Hazel makes an _ugh_ sound. 

Cha-Cha groans, still out of sight. “ _Hazel_ —" 

“I’ll deal with it, just—” Five makes an unexpected noise when Hazel whips him around transfers him into the other man’s arms. “Get him ready. I’ll be back.” 

”Better be quick,” Cha-Cha says to his retreating form, shifting Five around into a more brutish version of Hazel’s grip, “Looks like the pigs are getting close.” 

The sirens _are_ closer, but not nearly close enough. Five had never held much faith in the police force given the pitiful response time he’d observed during his one year of Umbrella Academy missions, but he had somehow forgotten that they could be _this_ slow. Christ. 

Cha-Cha unceremoniously deposits Five on a dressing room bench. He’s left scrambling to grip at the wooden-plastic sides to force his head to stop spinning, the sudden shift in gravity leaving spots in his vision. He blinks them away, then looks around in the dark. 

It’s a stall—bigger than what’s probably normal, not that Five would know. The after-hour lights of the store filter in under the swinging door, illuminating the floor and the bottoms of the walls. His academy loafers have a spot of dried blood stuck to the toe. 

”Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Cha-Cha starts, pulling something out of his plastic bag that Five can’t see from where he’s sitting. “You’ll drop your pants. We’ll do what we want. And then we’ll kill you.” A thoughtful pause. “Optimally, with minimal damage to both parties involved. Can’t guarantee that part, though.” 

Five stares at him, sick crawling up his throat. His fingers twitch. “Management, I presume, is aware of your…pedophilic excursions.” 

”Hey, cool it with the p-word,” Cha-Cha chastises with no real heat, “You’re not even a kid. The technicalities,” he snaps a gloved hand, “ _That’s_ what’s important here.” 

”Not true at all,” Five mumbles. 

”And,” Cha-Cha tosses the bag onto the floor, effectively ignoring Five’s feeble argument as he continues, “No, they don’t. We don’t generally do this with kids. You’re an exception.” 

He tries not to label this information as ‘deeply disturbing’ and forces his mouth into a patronizing smile. “That’s touching. Thanks.” 

Cha-Cha makes a _hmm_ noise. He steps closer, head inclined. Five leans back, against the wall, as far as he can go, watches as Cha-Cha strips off a glove to reveal a pale hand that slowly inches its way towards Five— 

”Kid,” Cha-Cha says, not putting his hand down, “Calm down. I wanna look at your wound.” Leaning forward. “Just let me…” 

His bullet hole continues to soak through his sleeve. Five feels it sticking wetly to the wall behind him, shifting uncomfortably with each breath, interrupting whatever futile attempt his body makes at clotting. It’s not _that_ bad, not fatal at least, though he has no idea what kind of damage Hazel did with his repeated thumbing. 

And—there’s no reason for Cha-Cha to look at it. Cha-Cha and Hazel are going to rape and kill him. He will not stop the apocalypse because he is going to die, here, in a department store, without saying goodbye to his family. Again. 

And—this time, they’ll find his body. The Commission rarely disposes of corpses since disappearances tend to give rise to more problems than solutions, so not only are his siblings going to die along with the rest of the planet _again_ , they’re going to die mourning Five. Again. Maybe. 

And—Five hates being touched. 

The hand continues forward. 

Five bats it out of the way with his good arm. Glares. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he spits. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

”A lot, probably,” Cha-Cha answers placidly. Curiously respecting Five’s demand, he’s retracted his hand and has now taken to fishing around his pocket for something. “I think it’s why management recruited us.” 

”You don’t say.” He needs a plan to get out of here. 

”Look, I just want to make sure you’re not seriously injured. Hazel would be _so_ pissed if I let you kick the bucket now,” Cha-Cha explains. He finally extracts his hand and brings it up close to his metal mask, looking to gauge if he found what he was searching for in the dark. He hums. “But you seem fine. Enough to be an ass, at least.” 

”I never _was_ one to be complimented on my temperament, no,” Five drawls. 

He needs to think. Consider his options. 

_If_ he can ride this out long enough—and that’s an _if_ —his body might recover enough energy to spatial jump. He doesn’t have the necessary data to calculate how long it’d take; he has no measurements for this body outside of whatever Reginald collected before he time-travelled, and all of those don’t take into consideration his current metacognitive abilities. It wouldn’t be accurate. 

Not that that matters right now. He’s stuck here the time being. 

”Kid,” Cha-Cha says, suddenly infringing on Five’s personal space. He flinches back into the wall. The man waves a bottle of—Five can just barely make out that it’s _lube_ —in front of Five’s face. “This is the part where you drop your pants.” 

A plan would consist of staying alive until further notice. A plan would mean complying with the demands requested of him. 

A plan would mean doing whatever it takes to survive. 

So he sits and breathes. Keeps his eyes trained on his lap. Allows his fingers to grip the sides of the bench so hard his knuckles turn white. Centers himself. He catches a tilting motion in his periphery; probably the giant mask. 

”You need help taking off your pants? Thought you were a big boy.” 

” _No_. No. I—” He swallows. _Necessary. Play along._ “I can do it.” 

Slowly, his fingers release their death grip on the bench. They inch to hover above the button of his shorts, then pause. 

”We really don’t have all day here, I hate to break it to you,” Cha-Cha says, exasperation edging into his tone. He shifts. “Just—” 

Five manages to glimpse the ungloved hand moving towards his waist in time to slap it out of the way. His own hands are shaking, now. “I said I can _do it_ ,” he grits out, voice sounding more airy than the ‘indignant’ he was aiming for. He clears his throat. “I can do it, I just—shut up. Let me do it.” 

Five’s fingers fumble on the button. He manages to pop it on the third try. 

_Slower. Draw it out._ He takes a deep breath in, lets it out. Shifts his weight forward and shimmies his shorts down past his waist, his thighs, down his calves and to the floor. 

”Okay,” Cha-Cha starts, amusement seemingly winning out over impatience. Five hears a little _click_ as the lube pops open, followed by the spitting sound of something being squeezed out of a bottle. Eyes are directed elsewhere, it seems. “A good start. Can you get the underwear on your own, too?” 

Against his will, a simmering, mortified heat rises to his face. Hoping it’s too dark for Cha-Cha to see, Five blindly hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and slides out of them, adamantly forcing his face still when cold air starts to nip at his bare skin. 

There’s a moment’s pause. Then: 

”Oh—well. Huh.” Cha-Cha’s voice is…not as aghast as Five would’ve expected. A little surprised, maybe. The silence stretches for several more seconds as Five pins his hands to his sides instead of allowing them to twitch up and cover his crotch. “That…makes it easier, I guess. Anal takes too long to prep.” 

Five’s teeth creak, mouth twisting into a scathing moue. He tries to be grateful that he isn’t able to see what expression Cha-Cha is making. At least he’s letting him keep his shirt on. 

Cha-Cha huffs, head creaking a fraction to the side. “Look—sorry. Not ideal for you, obviously. But it’s not, like—” He sounds uncharacteristically demure, an affect to his tone like he’s trying to tread lightly. There’s something in his lumbering posture that Five bizarrely interprets as ‘unsure’. “Didn’t know you had a vagina. Honest. Only Hazel gets off on the humiliation stuff.” 

Five stares at him uncomprehendingly, brain trailing forty feet behind this conversation. His tongue feels alien as he turns it over in his mouth. “You’re about to rape a child but the idea of offending his body is what gives you pause,” he states, detachedly. 

”Again, not a child. You’re being deliberately obtuse.” Leather shoes squeak on the linoleum as Cha-Cha shifts to a crouch. He leans in again, and Five slams himself as far back against the wall as he is physically able. Cha-Cha blows out a sigh. “If you do this whole ‘hard-to-get’ shtick with Hazel, pal, things are going to get _real_ bad, real quick.” A hand—ungloved, too intimate—slides up one of his thighs. “Saying this for your own good, by the way.” 

His nerve endings scream in pain at the contact, and Five jerks his leg to the side with an indiscernible noise. 

Skin contact—not used to it. The length of the apocalypse, he thinks, might’ve ruined that form of comfort indefinitely. 

_Breathe._

This plan, he realizes, is less feasible than he thought. 

”Don’t—” his voice cracks when he realizes he’s speaking, slightly shrill, and he can feel his eyebrows wobbling precariously. Blood rushes in his ears. 

Five, foolishly, feels the overwhelming need to go home and curl up in his bed. 

_Play along. Let it happen. Get out of this._ He is fifty-eight years old. He’s been through worse. 

His lungs ache, and he lets out a breath he doesn’t remember taking in. Forces his body to untense. When Cha-Cha touches him this time, he only flinches a little. The sensation burns just as much as before. He bites back a reaction. 

”What was the thing you were doing, by the way?” Cha-Cha asks, apropos of nothing and apparently opting to ignore Five’s half-hearted objection attempt altogether. Skin-on-skin friction burns up Five’s leg as the hand continues its medial motion. Cha-Cha makes an occasional back-and-forth petting movement, probably intended to be soothing, but it just sends wave after wave of repetitive fire up his nerves. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to thrash around like a child, hit, kick, like—like Reginald’s bratty, insolent son, clawing for the pain to stop, to go back to his siblings— 

Cha-Cha is still talking. Mostly to himself, at this point. “I swear, management doesn’t tell us shit. I mean, first of all, this assignment warranted hazard pay at the very _least_ —” 

Five vaguely remembers the original question and is struck with the sudden stupidity of the situation. ”Are you seriously expecting me to answer anything?” he interrupts, leaving out the implied _because you’re about to rape and subsequently kill me_. 

”Blame a guy for being curious, I guess…” he mumbles back, as insolent as Five is trying to avoid being. When his hand reaches the crease of Five’s thigh, he finally forces himself to look down. 

Cha-Cha’s hand is—large. Almost comically so, rested in the crook of his small, pale pelvis, looking like he could snap his femur in half if he decided to just grip it hard enough. He keeps the scant, not-even bush of pubic hair on the edges of his vision, eyes instead tracing the trademark assassin’s callouses trailing along the man’s knuckles. Ones that Five used to have. 

_Fifty-eight. He is fifty-eight years old._

He tries not to think about how young his body is, and fails. 

At some point Cha-Cha must have shed his other glove, because a lubricated finger is suddenly padding at Five’s slit, cold and jarring his muscles into a full-body flinch. An affronted squeak slips out of his mouth with the movement, welling embarrassment quickly petering off as the digit slides inside of him. 

It hurts—a little. Or—a lot, fuck. It’s ridiculously tight, uncomfortable. He shuts his eyes heavily, breathing through his nose as Cha-Cha steadily squirms his finger deeper. The man’s other hand hitches a leg up, pressing Five’s thigh up against his chest. 

“There’s, uh…” Cha-Cha awkwardly starts after a few moments, over the disquieting noise of lube working against his vulva. “There’s something…” 

Five is surprised his teeth don’t shatter from how hard he’s clenching them. The pain isn’t easing up, just getting worse. “Spit it out,” he snaps. “What?” 

”You have, uh—” There’s a sensation like tugging, like a string being plucked, and a dull sort of pain briefly cinctures the skin of his inner walls. A strangled noise grates out of Five’s throat. “—skin here. Like a rubber band? Dividing the hole of your cunt in two. Weird.” 

It’s hard to order his thoughts over the burning of each stroke, the friction against _something_. Lube, from Five’s understanding, should be preventing whatever this pain is. He tries not to squirm, fights against the urge to kick Cha-Cha in the gut, the jaw, the face. “What the fuck are you talking abou—” 

The door of the dressing room gently clicks open. In the half-illumination pooling from the hallway Five can catch the silhouette of Hazel’s oblong dog mask before the door swings back shut. Before pointless hope has a chance to kindle. 

There is no reason to expect a savior, Five knows. Hazel and Cha-Cha are professionals; they could take down the whole police force if they really wanted to. 

And that’s fine. To be expected. Five’s managed on his own for long enough, he can get out of this by himself. 

”Johnny Five-Oh’s outside,” Hazel is announcing, traipsing over to straighten his jacket in the mirror with what little light is filtering in from under the door. “Still hasn’t entered the building. Waiting for back-up, probably.” Cha-Cha pauses and turns to him. 

”Hazel, what’s the thing called where there’s skin in your vag?” 

The sound of footsteps approaching, the figure of Hazel leaning over Cha-Cha’s shoulder to investigate. ”What, like a hymen?” 

”…Maybe? You got a light?” 

There’s a moment of pocket-fumbling before the _click_ of a keychain LED flashlight swaths Five’s crotch in bright white. For the first time, Five actually sees rather than feels the hand inside him, a finger sunk up to the knuckle past his labia. Nausea hits him like a train. 

”Here, look,” Cha-Cha gestures with a dip of his head, wiggling his finger just slightly to make Five hiss. Hazel crouches and shoves his head under Cha-Cha’s arm— the one pinning Five’s leg to his chest—to get a closer look. It places them all in a curious, Twister-like formation. Cha-Cha must tug at him again, because the same dull pain as before flares up his vaginal walls. 

”Oh, that’s—holy shit,” Hazel laughs after a moment, jostling the light a little, “Dude, he’s got a septate hymen.” 

Five lets his head thunk against the wall, refusing to give into the urge to curl in on himself. He feels like a pinned cockroach. 

“Elaborate,” Cha-Cha says, voicing Five’s own mental query. 

”You know hymens, man.” 

”Colloquially referred to as ‘cherries’, yes.” 

”Ok, so, picture a vagina. Growing _in utero_.” 

”Picturing.” 

”And it’s going to be a cave-like thing.” 

”Naturally.” 

”So you’ve got this block of skin in your baby. And one of your genital tubes is—" 

”That the scientific name?” 

”Shut up. No, this tube is moving down to where your baby’s cunt canal is gonna be, right. And it happens from above downward, like, with the top. And then it breaks out. And that’s why hymens usually look like that.” 

”Like what?” 

”You’ve seen hymens.” 

”Not really.” Pause. “What about the kid?” 

”Okay, so in him,” followed by a rudely pointing finger, “The tube fucked up. And split in two or something. Probably.” 

”Wow.” 

”Yeah. Neat shit.” 

Five considers interrupting several times from sheer impatience but eventually settles on allowing them to stall themselves for time. And also because he kind of wants to know, not that any of the information Hazel presented was actually useful. 

Because— _of course_ Five has some vaginal anomaly. As if a miracle birth and super-powers would shield him from congenital defects. 

It makes a stupid amount of sense, putting words to it. He remembers the first time he tried using a tampon, back in the apocalypse before he found scattered packets of AndroGel in the ruins of a hospital, when he had lied on the ground for hours trying to get it out. Delores had to calm him down from near-hysterics after countless attempts at yanking the cotton cord and having it catch on nothing. 

It stopped mattering, soon enough, hormones drying up his uterus or however it worked. He didn’t think about it, and it’s not like he felt a massive urge to finger himself with nigh-constant unsterile hands. 

Fuck him, he supposes. 

Cha-Cha resumes his awkward palpation of Five’s vagina. “What do you propose, then?” 

”I think some people get ‘em removed, dunno,” Hazel is saying, hands in pockets. “Scissors and shit. We could do that, I’ve got a knife.” 

”We are most certainly _not_ doing that,” Five interjects, gritting his teeth. “ _We_ are not going to point anything remotely sharp within the vicinity of _my_ —vagina.” 

”Okay, well, _you_ are not the one in charge here, so _you_ don’t get to call the shots,” Hazel says, ducking out from under Cha-Cha’s arm and straightening. The light in his hand swings into Five’s eyes and he squints, discomfited, before turning to Cha-Cha. “But it _would_ bleed. A lot. Like, _Carrie_ -levels of blood.” Hazel claps him on the back as Five blanches. “Just aim for the bigger hole and you’ll be good.” 

”It’s not that much bigger, though...” Cha-Cha trails off, muttering uncertainly, accentuating his point by adding another finger and sending another wave of exacerbated pain webbing across Five’s vaginal canal. He bites his cheek to keep from audibly whining at the renewed sensation. 

Bad. This is _bad_. 

His chest suddenly feeling tighter than it should be, tighter than _calm_ or _in control_ would suggest. He instinctively reaches for his powers, testing, only to find himself hitting the same mental wall from before. A feeble blue flickers around his wrists as he paws at the barrier between spatial dimensions, ultimately sputtering out. 

”See, _that’s_ what I was talking about,” Cha-Cha exclaims, metal head whipping in the direction of his partner. A cry is ripped out of Five’s throat when his fingers sink up to the knuckle at the sudden motion. “You see that?” 

”Shit, okay, fine. He’s got powers,” Hazel assents, flicking off the flashlight to get a better glimpse at the fluorescent blue afterglow. His voice is becoming more and more muffled by the blood pounding in Five’s ears. “Why isn’t he using them, then?” 

Five bares his teeth, the warning of a cornered animal. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

”I mean, yeah.” 

The fingers in his vagina are alien, vile, nauseating. His plan…his plan. He can’t escape _now_ , but soon. “You’re just going to kill me anyway. It doesn’t matter.” 

Cha-Cha’s fingers slip out with a flat, wet sound. Five shudders at the gaping lack of _something_ , an aching pain decidedly lingering like a nettle rash. “Got a point.” 

Five watches as Cha-Cha straightens, unbuttons his trousers. Watches as he pulls out his penis, one that looks like Five cannot make out the details of his mask, the cartoonish Cheshire grin, the cheerful colors dark and indecipherable from the backlight filtering under the door. The hand that reaches for his thigh evokes the image of a cheap animatronic, stuttering in his tunneled vision until the robotic components slip under and dig in hard enough to bruise. 

It yanks, inhumanly strong. Lifts his pelvis forward and up off the bench with an ease reminiscent of Luther with one of Allison’s dolls, when he would snap their limbs on accident and make her cry. Five’s blazer drags down the wall with his back, with a sudden motion that jars his stomach unpleasantly, the bullet in his shoulder ricocheting another round of pain through him. When Cha-Cha takes lines his cock up against Five’s slit, Five realizes he isn’t breathing. 

_Plan. Plan. It’s the plan._

He can almost hear Delores’ voice, a soothing murmur, so similar to when he used to stand in the rubble with a blunted knife dipping into the soft skin of his wrists. _Just get through it, Five. You can do it._

He screams through his teeth when Cha-Cha pushes in. 

He bites his tongue and digs his hands into the sleeve of Cha-Cha’s suit as the man inches deeper, the sides of his length pinching past an unelastic resistance. His right hand wraps around just below his knee, squeezing, joining the other in holding Five up. 

It’s the worst thing he’s ever experienced. 

Worse than Reginald’s ‘special training sessions’. Worse than starvation carving his stomach open. Worse than being shot. 

He can feel every second of it, horrible, brutal pain, every nauseatingly intimate encroachment forward. He does not exactly know what ‘ready’ feels like, but this isn’t it. 

Cha-Cha grunts. Five can feel tears sting the corners of his eyes as his cock slides up to the hilt, his own inner walls reflexively clenching down around his invading shaft. 

_Breathe._ He can’t breathe, lungs only able to suck up the air streaming out the bottom of the hovering metal mask above him, colors indecipherable and flat in the dark. Cha-Cha starts inching out and back in, the friction dragging a cry out from some desperate place in Five’s throat. 

It’s like— 

It’s like squeezing a hand into a glove that won’t fit. It’s like living as a rubber band pulled so taut the tension and microtears are as pervasive as the rubber itself. It’s like a fork caught in a garbage disposal that won’t turn on. Five’s heels twitch against Cha-Cha’s hold fruitlessly. 

Cha-Cha starts pulling out further and further with each stroke, skidding past Five’s hymen with an evolving animalistic vigor. To Five’s horror the motion begins punching a frantic whine out of his lungs, his body’s instinctive and last-ditch attempt to _get away_ , but— 

But Five can deal with this. He can. He can do it. He can make it out. He just has to— 

”Did you know that guinea pigs actually dissolve and reform their hymens over the course of their heat cycle?” Hazel says abruptly, snapping Five back behind his eyes, to the dressing room, to—this. He makes the mistake of looking over at the pink-masked man, between the flexing gap between Cha-Cha’s arm, his torso, and Five’s leg; in this lighting, Five can make out his relaxed posture, leaning up against the wall, pants bunched up on the floor in front of him. He’s making a repetitive, circular motion with his arm; masturbating, then. “Like, they just naturally regrow the skin to keep unwanted dicks at bay,” he continues. “Nature, man. Too bad humans don’t do the same.” 

Cha-Cha doesn’t respond, fingers digging deeper into Five’s calves, too busy sinking in and out and in. Five has the impression that the comment was more directed at him anyway, but he couldn’t reply if he wanted to. Not with the breath being knocked out of him every few seconds. 

The police are—where? Five strains his ears past Cha-Cha’s labored breathing and thinks that he can maybe hear people at the entrance of Gimbel’s. An entire shopping floor away. 

Cha-Cha slips out, suddenly. Five releases a ragged wheeze, gasping, bows his knees as much as he can in the other’s iron grip and slumps against the wall. A weak moan chatters behind his teeth as he feels Cha-Cha realigning himself, head pressed against his entrance, and he pushes in, _again, again_ — 

There’s a sudden _pop_ , something snapping, startling and absolute pain _pain pain_ like stitches ripping open, threads coming loose. Something starts flooding down his abdomen. 

”Out,” Five breathes, semi-hysterical, jerking his legs in Cha-Cha’s grip as the fluid soaks his shirt, his blazer, warm and wet, damp and heavy. “Out, out, _get out_ —" 

Cha-Cha drops him, seemingly just as startled as Five. Five’s lower back slams back on the bench with a dull noise, a new, sharp pain flaring up his spine and mingling with the bullet wound. He can’t think about that right now because it _hurts_ , oh christ it hurts, his legs tuck up and his hands fly down to his crotch, to slide against the stream of blood steadily pooling down his legs and onto the shitty plastic wood. 

He sobs, stupidly, against his control. 

”Oh, my god, I—is that—” Cha-Cha’s voice sounds far away, on the other side of the room, quiet yet frantic. Then a groan. “I didn’t even finish.” 

Footsteps. Five growls as his hands are yanked away from his crotch. He chokes on his voice, bares his teeth, delirious, eyes wild. 

”Just finish yourself off,” Hazel says, definitely not to Five, in the dark. “My turn, though.” 

A thumb slips past his lips, forcing his jaw open, padding at his tongue, tasting of acrid gunpowder and sweat, of something else entirely. Palm and fingers cradle his face, rough, shakes his head just so. 

Five bites down. _Hard_. 

” _Jesus Chr_ —” The digit jumps out, flaying on teeth, leaving coppery blood lingering on Five’s tongue. He doesn’t have time to be satisfied, to think about the pain he’s inflicted with a vicious pleasure because _fuck this_ before another hand, unbitten, finds its way to his hair. 

Grips. Slams his head against the wall. 

Five’s vision swims, tilts, a gentle keening noise slipping past his lips. He slams his eyes shut at the sickening sway of the room as his head is violently shaken and used to drag him upright, like a ragdoll, to shove him up against the wall, its plaster undoubtedly stained with a distinctive bleed from his bullet wound already. 

”You are so—” A heavy weight settles on Five’s leg, hot, _skin_. He flings his eyes open to catch Hazel straddling his thigh, one leg propped on the bench and the other planted on the floor at an awkward angle. Ovoid pink leans closer as the man finds his sense of balance, cool metal devoid of all features save for empty, black pits for eyes knocking against his forehead. The hand in Five’s hair slides down to cover his mouth instead. “ _Extra_ , kid. You’re acting like this—” Two fingers stroke his entrance, prod, dig at the open wound of his ripped hymen. Five screams. the pained muffle pathetic even to his own ears. “—is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Stop crying.” 

Over the ringing in his skull ( _Which—possible concussion?_ Five makes a distant note to get that checked out later), he somehow didn’t notice that the slow, wet rocking on his bare skin is Hazel grinding his vagina against his thigh. 

Five can’t hold back a manic, nervous laugh at the sight. 

Blood continues streaming from between his thighs, thick and heavy. His shoulder aches. He can’t breathe past the hand over his lips. 

He doesn’t want to cry. It brings him no benefit, nothing to gain, no upper hand to be seen. Knowing this doesn’t stop the tears from sticking to his eyelashes. 

”You’re gonna be dead soon anyway, man.” The grinding feels odd, the weight of the man like a rock. “Take a little pleasure while you can. We’re not stopping you from touching yourself.” 

The fingers finally exit him, the hand over his mouth resettling at the base of Five’s neck, thumb pressing against his Adam’s apple in warning. The fingers trail up, slick with blood, and— 

slide into Five’s mouth. 

He gags. 

”Christ, are you actually a girl?” he asks as Five twitches weakly against him, tears flowing freely now, face contorted into an expression of disgust. “This isn’t half as bad as what Bigfoot over there,” a shrugging gesture probably in Cha-Cha’s direction, “Did to you. Speaking of which, Cha, hey.” 

”Hm,” a grunt answers, and Five notices the gentle slapping of skin on the other side of the stall. A man masturbating to—Five bleeding out of his vagina. He closes his eyes. 

”You want in on this, or you good with the mental image of popping his cherry? Cunt’s probably out of commission, but he’s got other faculties…” 

”He’d bite.” Airy. Strained. Definitely masturbating. He’s not wrong, either; Five would, without a second’s hesitation. 

”Boy’s got hands. An ass.” The fingers in his mouth palpate at his tongue, undulating, copper all he can taste. “Come on, you’re more intuitive than this.” 

”Well, sorry, it’s a little hard to think with my dick drenched in blood like—shit, it really _was_ like _Carrie_.” 

”I fucking told you, man.” The weight on him shifts, hand detaching from his throat, and moments later his blood-logged shirt and blazer are being hitched up as a blade comes to dig into his sternum. Five keeps his eyes shut. “You know, there aren’t even that many blood vessels in the hymen. Don’t know what the fuck this biblical flood’s about.” 

Five considers biting again, but ultimately decides it’s pointless. _The plan. Play along._

He’s lightheaded, shivering, in pain he hasn’t experienced in decades; Five is ready to admit the plan fucking sucks. 

”Anyway,” Hazel continues, hips still rocking and fingers still pressing and knife suddenly making a jagged line down his abdomen, not too deep but enough to _hurt_ , enough for Five to intimately feel his skin divide between metal. More liquid heat, trailing down his stomach, joining what is probably a daunting pool of his own blood. “Just get your ass over here. The sound of you beating your dick while this kid squirms is pathetic.” 

A grumble, then footsteps, then a warm, swollen shaft of skin being shunted into Five’s limp hand. 

His eyes open to take in Cha-Cha holding his wrist up, molding his hand into a cupped shape, fucking his bloody, uncircumcised dick between Five’s palm and fingers. It feels volatile and sick and invasive and Five wants to squeeze so hard he snaps it in half, dig his fingers in and _rip_ , but he suspects he doesn’t have the grip strength. Not in this body. 

He breathes. Stops himself from hyperventilating. The plan, he reminds himself, if only to ground him to reality and not whoever-the-fuck-knows-where. If he reaches for his powers, he can feel the barest flicker of energy in his reserves—not enough to jump, but…some. He’s close. 

_Just a little longer._ He can do it. He can wait. 

Five accidentally lets his eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the railroad of fiery pain, and catches some of Hazel’s handiwork past the bunched-up clothes being held up by—Cha-Cha, apparently: lines, some precise and surgical and others ragged and rough, all of varying depths, lengths, bloodflow. He swallows. Feels the urge to close his eyes again but realizes that’s probably unsafe. 

”I’ve been thinking,” Hazel murmurs into the quiet, slightly breathy, over the faraway sound of police milling about. Five gets the idea that the man physically _can’t shut up_. “About how to kill him, you know?” 

”Mm,” Cha-Cha grunts back. 

”Like, with the cops out there, a bullet’s pretty much out of question—because I know post-orgasmic me will be lollygagging for like, fifteen minutes afterwards—“ 

”You can say that again…” Cha-Cha shivers in Five’s hand, probably close. _Good._

”Shut up, man. Asking for serious input here.” 

”Th— _nngh_ ,” Cha-Cha cuts off, tensing in Five’s hand briefly before a thick string of semen shoots out of his cock. A little catches on Five’s cheek, and without thinking his hand—the bloody one, the one attached to his good shoulder, the one Cha-Cha just released from his grip to bumble off to wherever in the stall—flies up to wipe at it. He grimaces around the fingers in his mouth and the nausea rising in his stomach as an amalgamation of sweat and precome and his own blood smears across his face, texture sticky and gross. 

They don’t notice his sanitary dilemma, the way his chest starts heaving. “That wasn’t an answer, Cha.” 

”Sorry,” Cha-Cha pants, out of breath. He’s begun ambling about, searching about for something in the dark. “I don’t want to deal with more blood. And—Christ, Hazel,” a pause like he’s turning to look at them, “You’re going to make him bleed to death just from _that_.” Probably referring to the shoddy knifework. Five is inclined to agree. 

”Whatever,” Hazel grunts, hips still gyrating. He’s put the knife down and taken to tracing calloused fingers into the marks on Five’s abdomen, pain shrieking up Five’s muscles with each motion. “A slit throat too bloody for you, then?” 

”Mm…I can’t think of anything that’d be cleaner,” Cha-Cha relents, “It’s not like we thought to bring the poison kit.” 

Hazel breathes out a laugh and digs his fingers deeper, leaning more of his weight forward. Five whines and tries to jerk his head back, into the wall, away from this—the touch and intimacy he’s shared with no one but Delores for decades. His own hands come up to press at the other man’s shoulders despite his urgent thoughts of _the plan, the plan, stay pliant_ , but the thumb under his chin holds tight and steady, keeping him pinned. 

“We’re gonna leave you here,” Hazel whispers, metal mask pressed against Five’s cheek, the words echoing lightly inside it, “Pants down, cunt out. Blood pouring out like Niagara. They’re gonna think, ‘This poor girl, raped and mutilated, _so sad_ she died so young.’” The hand in his chest wounds dips back down to his vagina with a drag of nails-in-wounds. Five kicks the heel of his free leg back against the wall, grounding himself in the pain that shoots up his Achilles. “Will anyone care?” 

A beat passes, everyone breathing ragged and low in the small space. 

Five can hear blood pounding in his ears. Dread curls vicelike around his lungs, serpentine and vile, and he’s suddenly overwrought with body-wide a sense of _wrong_ , of violation, of _this isn’t right, this isn’t fair_. He jerks as Hazel swirls his finger around his still-bleeding hymen, dark-addled vision blurring with tears. _Stupid._ Fucking stupid. 

He doesn’t _know_ if his family will care, is the thing. He’s been gone long enough, and, honestly, he was never the most affable brother in the first place. Their reunion had been short-lived and…surprisingly unaffectionate. He keeps trying not to be upset about that, especially _now_ , but the emotions are crashing in waves. 

They don’t even know that apocalypse is coming. Nobody does, nobody but Five, and fuck, he should’ve told them because— _the plan_ —he might die. He might die, and the idea of them finding him like this is— 

”You think they’ll cover your corpse up with something from the girl’s section as they drag you out?” Hazel continues, unrelenting, “Hide the, you know,” a sigh, a shudder of hips as he presses himself flush against Five and starts grinding more erratically, “Burst pipe. Or will they just shove you in a body bag? Let you soak in your own blood as they take you to the morgue…” 

Five sinks his teeth into Hazels’ fingers, softly, a not-quite bite squeezing brown flesh as he shudders on a sob. 

He’s lived through an apocalypse. He’s been tortured and raped and _this_ is what makes him break down, being intentionally baited by a psychosexual sadist. Professional Assassin: Five Hargreeves. 

” _Hazel_ ,” Five barely hears over the hammering of his heart, the pathetic little noises that keep slipping out of his mouth, “Kid’s going through enough. Take it down a notch or the police’ll hear his bawling.” 

”Fine,” comes the mumbled reply, “God, you’re really no fun, sometimes…” 

”One of us has to play chaperone…” 

Everything sounds too muffled over the beating his heart. Despite his painstaking attempts otherwise, Five’s lungs give up their steady breathing pattern and rapidly shunt him towards hyperventilation. 

_Five, calm down,_ Delores says, somewhere deep in the back of his mind. _The plan will work. Reach for your powers. Go on._

Then Hazel groans, a gravelly sound that rattles his dog mask and forces a vibration down to the tip of his tailbone. Five notes the last few heavy bucks against his wet thigh as the other man goes rigid, shaking, before slumping against his smaller form. 

Done. They’re both done. 

Five wheezes, lightheaded, air not coming in fast enough. His head spins. 

_Five,_ Delores warns. 

” _I cn’t,_ ,” he whines, muffles past the fingers. 

”Alright, well,” Hazel peels himself off of Five’s blood-coated front, red staining his tie and jacket and shirt, a few streaks somehow emigrated to the metal of his mask. “That just about does it.” 

Hazel balances himself against Five’s shoulders as he stands on shaky legs, hand finally slipping out of his mouth and cunt. Five doesn’t even register the pain from the bullet wound this time around, though his knees jerk together as the man ambles away. Blood continues to trickle down his legs. 

The patch of skin that Hazel was straddling feels wet and too cold. 

_Five, you have to get moving. Now._

”You get what you needed?” It’s Cha-Cha. 

”More than. Gonna need a new suit, though.” Hazel. 

”No shit. Really too bad the cops are buzzing around like…like flies _on_ shit. Could just go and grab whatever.” The familiar sound of assault weapons being pulled apart piece-by-piece, metal clacking down in a case. Which—where did that come from…? “I hate Commission-issued clothing. Itchy as all hell.” 

”Oh, like you wouldn’t have to get it fitted anyway.” Five watches as Hazel slips his pants back on and uses them to try and wipe the blood off his hands. It doesn’t help much. “Giant-ass.” 

_Five._

”Ha-ha, another ‘Cha-Cha’s tall’ joke. Find some new material before you get back to me.” Case clicking shut. 

”Mr. Comedian over here the king of jokes now, huh? That it?” Hazel floats back over to the bench where Five sits mindlessly. Where his _knife_ lays beside him. 

_Five_ , Delores says, voice loud enough to boom around his skull. _Your life can’t end here. You don’t want that._

His powers. 

He pokes at them, feels the familiar surge of , of physics ready to bend at his will. Weak, but useable. 

The scene of Hazel raising a knife to his throat is suddenly enflamed with blue, and he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> We discussed (and I began writing) an ending where Five can only manage to teleport to the middle of the store and is sublequently discovered by police (and Diego, leading to them having a brotherly heart-to-heart rape talk), but we both decided not to go for it. Hope you appreciate the thought of strangers finding Five tucked behind an aisle and bleeding onto the linoleum from his vagina as much as we have, though.


End file.
